


Business Affairs

by wellthatsood



Category: Boardwalk Empire
Genre: F/M, Mild Sexual Content, Pre-Relationship, Resolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-23
Updated: 2015-02-23
Packaged: 2018-03-13 23:54:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3400850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wellthatsood/pseuds/wellthatsood
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Margaret and Arnold meet to discuss a deal, they try to establish more than just finances.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Business Affairs

**Author's Note:**

  * For [carolynhidthecake](https://archiveofourown.org/users/carolynhidthecake/gifts).



The heels of her shoes clacked as she half-ran down the sidewalk, her hands holding tight to the umbrella as rain poured around her. The pavement was slick, dark grey, gleaming slightly as it reflected the stories of buildings stretching up to the monochrome sky. The doorman leapt to attention as she neared, one gloved hand pushing open the door into the warm light of the lobby. Margaret burst through with a remark of relief. Another man in uniform took her umbrella and hat and helped her out of her damp coat. With a smile and a word of thanks, she paused briefly in the lobby, examining her reflection—and the weather’s damage—in a broad mirror suspended in a gold-scrolled frame. 

She pressed her lips together, watching the red of her lipstick curl and uncurl. Her hair had lost a little of its life in the downpour and seemed a touch darker, from the pelting rain that dampened her considerably shorter strands. No matter; it wouldn’t stay pristine for much longer anyway. 

With considerably more poise—no need to hurry, after all—Margaret strode towards the elevator, instructing the young man inside to, “Floor eleven, if you please.” He was a skinny thing, jumpy and sheepish in his manner. He glanced at her as the grate closed before them and she offered a tight smile. “Dreadful rain storm, isn’t it?” she commented and he relaxed with a hurried nod. 

She did not hesitate as she left the elevator, finding the room easily enough, though she had never been to the hotel. But she remembered the number and moving with precision, even in moments of uncertainty, was becoming second nature. All it took was practice. 

Margaret rapped her knuckles against Room 1137. There was barely a pause before she heard the jangle of the chain unlatch. Arnold smiled as he opened the door, stepping aside to allow her entry. “My apologies for the inclement conditions,” he said softly. Margaret heard the rustle of the chain in the door as she strode into the room. 

“It’s hardly your fault,” she said with a wry smile, setting her handbag on an end table in the suite’s sitting room. “Unless I’m much mistaken and you _do_ control the weather?” 

Arnold laughed, in his usual manner, with a soft exhale that brushed the air as though it ran across silk. “No, I’m afraid I don’t control everything,” he admitted, as amused as he seemed bashful. 

Margaret couldn’t help but smirk, as she agreed, “That’s certainly true.” Arnold’s expression faltered for just a moment; if she hadn’t been practicing, she might have missed it. Good. She preferred when she caught him off-guard. She had a hunch that he did, too. 

“I’ve taken the liberty of ordering our dinner already. It should arrive momentarily,” he informed her. Margaret thanked him as she took her seat, gesturing that he should do the same. She clicked open her purse, rooting around for the carefully folded slips of paper at the bottom. Margaret smoothed them against the table and immediately set to business. She wrote her notes in careful codes, concealing suspicious numbers as street addresses, company names as acrostic grocery lists, and other innocuous bits of information that her bosses would think the trivial scribblings of some foolish working woman trying to be a mother at the same time. Arnold learned her code quickly, after she first explained it, though she always took the time to elucidate the information herself each time they met. She wanted no misunderstandings. Besides, as Mr. Bennett always said, there was no substitute for a personal consultation with an expert, she thought with a smirk. 

Arnold listened with rapt attention as Margaret went over the information—the changes he could expect, the routes they could take to earn a profit, and how many shares Margaret projected they would require. They paused their conversation only for a moment, as the hotel delivered their dinner. With plates in front of them, Margaret continued. 

Arnold did not interrupt until she had explained everything. When she was through, he took a delicate bite, chewed thoughtfully, and pocketed the slips of paper. At last he spoke, though not to offer his opinion or his thanks. Instead, he said to Margaret’s surprise, “Have you ever considered the asset you could be to your employers? And yet, you answer phone calls and deliver memorandums, and pass the information along to me instead.” There was no judgment, only curiosity as he appraised her. 

Margaret shrugged as she continued her meal. “You listen.” 

“And that’s enough to earn your loyalty, even at the expense of your company?” It was difficult to see much behind the careful, curious expression, but Margaret thought she saw a glimmer of pride, was it? Or perhaps flattered contentment. 

Instead, Margaret laughed, a wicked look of mischief darting across her face. “And who’s to say you _have_ earned my loyalties, Mr. Rothstein?” she teased. With any other man, they’d prefer to think they had her hook, line, and sinker—and it was preferable that Margaret let them believe as much. But Arnold was different, somewhat. She had known that almost immediately. Before he could respond with a clever quip all his own, Margaret gestured to him and added, “Besides, the information I provide _is_ for the benefit of my present company.” 

He laughed, a little incredulous, as he reached for the teapot to pour them each a cup. They both enjoyed it after dinner. “Well, your present company thanks you.”

There was a moment of silence between them. Such was not unusual, as Arnold was prone to comfortable silences, which Margaret rather appreciated. She had plenty of meaningless chatter at the office and enjoyed any situation where she could be free of such things. However, with his eyes downcast to his teacup as he poured just a dash of milk, she had the distinct impression that he was rather speechless. 

“You know,” she said, a little louder than she might otherwise, but Arnold’s reactions were making her feel rather heady and bold, “I do worry what the doorman must think of me. It must seem truly untoward.” 

Arnold’s glance shot up. “I beg your pardon?” 

She shrugged, looking away from him to study the hotel room. It was rather beautiful—and with a suite, there was no need to consider the bedroom she knew lurked behind the brightly polished doorknob in the corner. All the same… “I’m sure there must be some interesting thoughts, as to what a woman might do, coming to a hotel room for only a few hours and then leaving.” 

Margaret wasn’t looking, but she heard the teacup hit the saucer harder than usual. 

“I’m sure no one is paying very close attention,” Arnold said. His voice was even, but she heard a note of concern. “Hotels are much more anonymous. If we were to meet in an apartment or an office, well… What would _that_ doorman think of your repeat appearances?” 

He had a point, but Margaret wasn’t going to drop her line so easily, now that she had him. “So that’s why you choose different hotels depending on the week. And here I thought you wanted to give me the grand tour through the city.” She flashed a smile, which he meekly returned. 

“If you are uncomfortable with any impressions you fear may be formed, then we can discuss an alternative meeting arrangement.” 

How businesslike. Margaret smirked, and continued speaking as though she had not heard him. “Though I suppose I don’t _look_ like a prostitute, do I?” 

Arnold nearly choked on his tea and stared at her with alarm. “I- Well, I- No, I suppose you don’t.” 

She leaned back in her chair, adopting a demure expression that _nearly_ covered the gleam of mischief in her eyes. “My apologies. Now _I’m_ being rather untoward, aren’t I?” She wondered if he heard the sarcasm. 

Arnold cleared his throat and shifted a few of their empty dishes onto the dinner tray. “Perhaps I ought to call the front desk and clear all this away.” 

“Are we through?” Margaret asked. It would have been an innocuous question, were it not for her expression. 

“Miss Rohan, why do I get the distinct impression that you’re employing your _wiles_ on me?” he asked with a steadfast stare. 

She was flustered for only a moment; she hadn’t expected he would say something so direct. But, hurriedly, she replied, “It’s what all men like to believe, isn’t it? That any pretty girl speaking to them must _oozing_ with wiles.” 

That didn’t shake him. “I make no such assumptions—under ordinary circumstances. But you’re being deliberately lewd and I believe we’ve established that neither of us is stupid.” 

Margaret felt her back against the wall—figuratively speaking. She expected a _response,_ if anything, and not a frank discussion of her motivations and allures. She crossed and uncrossed her ankles, her slender fingers brushing the bracelet against her wrist—a nervous tick, and one she knew Arnold would notice immediately. Nervous ticks were his specialty; she cringed inwardly for letting him see her slip. 

Continuing in the pattern of the unexpected, Arnold’s hand reached across the table and gently folded overtop hers. Margaret looked up, searching his face, and thought she saw fear. “Tell me what you’re up to,” he said. 

Her face fell, eyes trained on the grains of wood in the lacquered surface of the table. She could feel years of guilt on her shoulders, which had nothing and everything to do with her present situation. “I- I suppose I wanted to see- if you truly thought of me as a business partner or as a—” 

“Prostitute?” he finished for her, the word seeming to clank discordantly against his diction. 

“Well,” Margaret pursed her lips and tossed her head in a moment of thought, “I suppose that was a little unfair. I’m sure they're lovely women.” 

Arnold laughed and Margaret smiled, glad to have something natural between them once more. 

The moment, however, was unfortunately fleeting. A look of consternation fell across Arnold’s face, as he shifted in his seat and stared down at the table. A feeling settled in Margaret’s stomach, and she could not tell if it was an ill feeling or a pleasant one. But there was something churning in his head and her heart pounded at the thought of knowing what it might be. He was so full of thoughts, all of which he kept private, that every little glimpse she could capture came with its own thrill of victory. 

“Unless, of course, I’m mistaken about all of this and you _do_ think of me that way,” she said quietly, a guess that felt correct the second it formed on her lips—less red than earlier, the color left in a faint ring around her teacup. 

“We’ve conducted our business,” Arnold said, though it hardly felt like an answer. “You’ve proved an excellent partner and I see no reason why I should not think of you as such.” 

“Perhaps because you’ve another motivation entirely.” There was a hint of bitterness she could not mask and knew he would not mistake. It was the jagged edge sharpened by every man who saw her acquaintance, her conversation, her presence as little more than an opportunity to further his less reputable desires, with little regard for her endeavors to make her way through the world without such things. If she saw a profit in playing along, she would. But it would be nicer if such a game did not exist at all. 

“You want me to say that I find you attractive, is that what you’re angling for?” Arnold asked. The change in his voice was subtle, nearly imperceptible, but to Margaret, he might as well have been shouting. 

“I’m not _angling_ for anything!” she snapped. 

Arnold scoffed. “That’s hard to believe, considering your comments half a minute earlier.” 

Another silence fell between them, though this one was not nearly as comfortable. Margaret shifted in her seat. She would not be made a fool of. She stood, folding the napkin from her lap and placing it on the table. She did not look at him. “Well, if we’ve concluded our _business,_ then perhaps I’ll be—” 

His hand reached out. Margaret flinched, but he did not grab her. His touch landed light—tentative, almost childlike in its hesitance—against her wrist and she froze. 

“I do find you attractive,” he said in little more than a whisper. When she did not move or respond, he continued, “That doesn’t mean I consider you any less of a business partner. It’s merely… a fact, but one that does not contradict our conducting business together.” 

It felt like a long while before Margaret spoke, though it could not have been more than a few seconds. Her eyes were still fixed on the door. “I’m not naive. Please do not think me so. And I’m not so foolish to believe a man who makes his living by telling lies.” 

“And how do you make your living, Miss Rohan?” he asked, voicer calmer than she would have expected, given the accusations. 

“By- by—as a secretary!” But the indignance was lost from her protest, because she knew what he meant. She always knew it; she accepted it. “Lies are how every person makes a living,” she conceded in a hush. 

Beside her, Arnold rose to his feet. He stepped around her, away from the table, to fetch his hat and coat from the chair in the corner. “If we’ve concluded our affairs, then perhaps we had better part. I will get in touch soon.” 

But Margaret had made up her mind. 

She strode across the room, grabbed his arm, and kissed him as he turned. Her hands were tight against him, lips determined, while his grasp on her waist was light, his kiss surprised but earnest. 

She broke away smiling; Arnold stared. “We’ve finished with business, yes, but not with our affairs,” Margaret said, low and hurried. If Arnold had a retort, he did not have the opportunity to say it, as her lips returned to his once more. With her hands on his lapels, Margaret backed them towards the unspoken door. 

She fumbled with the knob, then closed the door behind them—sealing them away, though there was little need, as the hotel suite was entirely empty besides the two of them, kissing hurriedly, moving jerkily, and often missing one another’s mouths. But it felt proper—if anything about their situation _could_ —to close the door and close off the world. 

Margaret felt the backs of her thighs hit the bed. She sat down, pulling Arnold with her. In surprise and haste, at the sudden change from the vertical to the horizontal, Arnold’s elbow became acquainted with Margaret’s ribcage, and she yipped more in surprise than in pain. But he retracted immediately, sitting upright, alarmed. 

“It’s alright,” Margaret said hurriedly, reaching for him, afraid that if any time passed they would surely come to their collective senses and stop everything at once. It would have been for the best, but she didn’t want that. 

She liked the sight of Arnold, perched on the edge of the bed—his breathlessness, the crookedness of the tie around his neck, a slightly rumpled look that lived in stark contrast to the collected and perfectly assembled man she saw often. He smiled at her, both delight and fear in his eyes, a contradiction that seemed seamless only in him. 

“I’m afraid it rather isn’t,” he confessed, with sheepishness. 

“I see,” she said, curt as disappointment settled in her stomach. She sat up, straightened her skirts, and stared ahead. She would leave then, rather than play the fool, throwing herself to bed with a man who did not want—

Yet, Arnold’s lips were on hers once more, though without the sudden desperation and abandon with which Margaret had kissed him. Arnold was soft, tentative, his hand broad and gentle as he placed it against his cheek. She didn’t understand him fully—and she sensed that she never would—but the slow carefulness of his movements felt right. It fit the picture of him that Margaret held in her head, tucked alongside his inward smiles and careful glances and the deliberate precision of his voice. 

She pulled him down more slowly this time, her motions making her intentions clear as they happened, until her head hit the pillows and Arnold was against her, still occupied in gentle kisses as he propped himself on one arm. 

When their lips parted, Arnold lowered himself wordlessly, until his head rested against Margaret’s shoulder, her arm thrown haphazardly across his back. Her lips quirked for a moment, as she wasn’t certain she’d never held a man that way in bed, but she found she rather enjoyed the sensation. There was a newness in holding, in providing comfort, in feeling another’s trust as he nestled against her. Tentatively, she craned her neck and kissed the top of his hair. She felt his chuckle more than she heard it. 

“Don’t tell me you’ve gone and worn yourself out already,” she said with a laugh. Margaret couldn’t understand what, precisely, was happening between them. She felt as though she were feeling her way along a corridor in darkness, slowly creeping towards a shaft of light at the other end. Yet she felt excitement to discover her destination, rather than fear. 

“On the contrary,” he replied. She half-expected something rather lewd to follow, but he just said, simple and honest, “Whatever you want to happen, can happen. Whatever you don’t want, needn’t.” 

She smiled; somehow that promise thrilled her more than any insinuations could. “That’s a rather surprising attitude for a man to take.” Most had their own expectations—especially when they wound up in bed with a woman. It was almost difficult to believe that Arnold meant what he said, that if she chose to get up and walk out, he would be just as content as if they consummated the flirtatious talk of the day. 

But Arnold merely apologized for the men she had known. She could feel the stiffness of his spine and it worried her. Gently, she lifted his chin with a steady hand and kissed him, in question. “Is this what you want?” she murmured against his lips, too fearful to look into his eyes. They revealed either too much or nothing at all, and Margaret hadn’t decided yet how much of an answer she wanted. 

Their daring, clever quips were behind them. Margaret must have forgotten to carry them from the table to the bedroom. In a moment of surprising honesty, Arnold whispered, “Your happiness? Yes. Though I can’t see how I could—But the choice is yours to make. I’ll abide it either way.” 

Her breath caught in her throat; her hand froze against his cheek. She was glad it did not tremble. Honesty frightened her much more than their coquetry. Perhaps it was best to leave, before either of them said words too weighty, which would hang between them—dense and suffocating—once they left the bedroom. Or, Margaret thought with resolution, they could stop speaking altogether. 

She answered him with a firm kiss. She held him, as they continued their former banter with wordless lips. Before long, Margaret shifted, guiding him as she moved, until he lay against the bed with Margaret atop him. 

It was what she wanted. She wanted to feel the rustle of her skirt against her bare thighs, as she carefully rolled down her stockings. She wanted to feel his breath hitch as, one by one, she undid each button. She wanted his hair untangling beneath her fingers, his touch on bare skin, and his searching, earnest expression as he looked to follow her lead. 

The rain pattered against the windowpane, staccato and precise. He was steady, gentle, transfixed. Night fell through the window as Margaret leaned forward, kissing him with languid ease as she rocked her hips. His fingers trailed her skin, across her back, arms around her waist. He held her close, responding to her pace. Margaret had never known a man so attentive; he moved as though he were listening, with nothing of his own to say, too enraptured in the story she was telling. She let it unfurl slowly, their bodies rolling and learning and gasping, inhaling and exhaling. 

When her breath quickened, he hurried his movements. When she bit her lip and withheld soft whimpers, he squeezed her hand. When she buried her face into the crook of his neck, his hands wove gently through her hair. 

The room was cast in long shadows by the time the two untangled from one another. Margaret sighed as she rolled beside him. With a giggle, she licked the tip of her thumb and rubbed it against his neck. “You’ve a bit of lipstick,” she explained with a smile, in response to the questions in his eyes. There would be more of those to come, no doubt, but for the time being, Margaret had every answer she wanted. 

Arnold’s grin was soft as he stretched beside her. He seemed peaceful, without the usual thoughtful draw on his brow, without the stiff collars and the careful presentation. She tucked the image away carefully into her memory, uncertain how often she might see it, but treasuring the glimpse she had earned all the same. His pieces were many, but she felt she understood their full portrait better.  

Yet, still surprising her at every turn, Arnold laughed suddenly. “What is it?” she asked, suspicious. 

He shook his head and turned to smile at her. In a soft voice, a teasing glimmer in his dark eyes, he whispered, “What must the doorman think?” 

The calm that had settled on the room was swept away, blown like dust from the mantle by Margaret’s loud, crisp laugh. With a wicked grin, she answered, “I don’t care what the doorman thinks.” 


End file.
